Nine In All
by Iron Woobie
Summary: A strange part of him was hoping Barry would contradict him, come up with some bizarre speedster theory of how the guy could dig his way up from six feet under and start running around the world again. Hoping for a miracle or something. But… Dick had to face the fact of reality. Sometimes the good guys just can't get back up again. T for references to character death. One-shot.


_**A.N.**_ I had this idea for a oneshot in my head… and here we are. As if the series finale for Young Justice wasn't enough, I had to take the tragedy concept on a different route, in a different time. Yeesh…

I'd say I hope you enjoy it, but… it's pretty depressing, people.

That said, I hope you like it anyway!

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**Nine In All**

Speed.

"_Artemis, duck!"_

That idea of "faster".

"_This is getting out of hand!"_

People have referred to Superman as "faster than a speeding bullet" for ages. It's what athletes train to become, what computers are expected to be.

"_Robin, can you break into their systems?"_

It's a speedster's only goal in life.

"_I can't, they're self-contained! Each one of them has a single, isolated database."_

To. Get. Even. Faster.

"_It's alright guys, I've got this."_

Dick sighed and absentmindedly ripped up some of the grass near his foot. He was leaning haphazardly against the gravestone, legs outstretched. It was early in the day, pre-sunrise, a hazy dawn that blanketed Central City in sleepy fog. It was a Wednesday, that unloved middle child of the weekday family.

Dick had decided to take a train from Gotham to Central over the weekend, rather than Zeta-tube halfway across the country instantaneously. He needed the time to think.

"_Kid, there's no time. We need to clear out."_

Footsteps on the cemetery ground approached from behind him. Dick tilted his head backwards to see the Flash, Barry Allen, walking towards him. The blonde man smiled at him. "How's it going, Dick?" he asked, far too cheerful for five in the morning.

Especially considering the circumstances.

"Okay, sir. And you?" Dick noticed the faint crease between Barry's eyebrows, the only indicator of anything other than happiness in the speedster's bright persona.

"Getting by, getting by." Barry smiled softly and looked off to the side, blue eyes lost in the distance. "It's been a bit difficult. People here are taking it pretty hard. Some more than others." Barry blinked and smiled, but Dick saw the haunting shadows underneath the surface.

"_There are hostages still in the sublevels. We can't leave them!"_

Dick resumed picking at the grass. "I dropped by for a visit since I have the next few days off from work. It feels like the whole town's quiet. Like… like some spark was blown out of it."

Barry chuckled softly, hand rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes darted down at the gravestone briefly. "Yeah, something like that."

A momentary breeze passed through the cemetery, sending a morning chill pressing into Dick's bones and causing him to involuntarily shiver. He had left his jacket back at the hotel. Footsteps. Barry quietly sat down beside the gravestone, across from Dick. The two men held a comfortable silence as the sun began to slowly awaken on the horizon.

"_KF, there's no point. They're too heavily armed, even you won't make it!"_

Dick's fingers abruptly dug into the soil where he had ripped up the grass. "Does it ever get any better, Barry?" The older man calmly turned to him with a questioning look on his face. "The doubt, I mean. Because… I still feel it. It's been three months as of today, but… I-I feel like he's still out there, you know?" His hand fisted in the dirt, soil pushing under his nails.

Barry nodded. "I know."

"It's like he's still alive, still out there, still… cracking jokes and hitting on girls and coming up with useful combat banter over lunch." Dick hated how raspy his voice came out at the end.

"There's still a spark," Barry said. Dick turned to look at him. Barry's eyes were closed, his head resting back against the gravestone. "You're not alone, Dick. We all feel the same way. Kid always had that… spark, that thing that fueled this town, and the people here are so subdued because… they can still feel that spark. He still has that effect on people. And… it seems wrong."

"_Does it matter? Last I checked, we don't stop, not even now. We never back down!"_

The engraved words in the gravestone felt like they were burning against his shoulder. Dick leaned away from the granite grave marker, bending forward to start pulling at the grass in front of him. He frowned. "But… but it's stupid. It's not like he's alive. He's not coming back. We… we have his body. He's right here." He patted the ground to his side in front of the grave marker. "He's… right… here," he whispered, an angry fire burning him alive from the inside.

Barry nodded quietly and simply said, "Yes."

Dick inhaled deeply, pushing down the feelings of disappointment. A strange part of him was hoping Barry would contradict him, come up with some bizarre speedster theory of how the guy could dig his way up from six feet under and start running around the world again. A strange part of him was hoping for a miracle or something.

"_Kid, don't be stupid... Kid. KF! KF, stop!"_

But… Dick had to face the fact of reality.

"_That-that's the last hostage. G-g-get 'em to safety. Go! Go now!"_

Sometimes the good guys just can't get back up again.

"_Seriously guys… I'm right behind you. Move."_

Death. The one hurdle no one, not even a hyperactive red-headed speedster, can work up enough willpower to jump over. No matter how fast they are.

As the sun cleared the horizon, sending searing rays of mocking light to pierce the fog over Central City, Barry stood to his feet. "It's good seeing you, Dick. You know you're free to stop by our house anytime. In fact, I think Iris is making spaghetti tonight, featuring her secret recipe marinara sauce. You're welcome to join us for dinner, if you'd like?"

Dick smiled in gratitude and he slowly stood up as well. "That sounds wonderful, thank you for the offer. And how about I bring dessert?"

"Looking forward to it." Barry grinned good-naturedly, his eyes bright for the most part, the darkness shoved aside for the meantime. The two men shook hands before parting ways in opposite directions, Barry to his lab at the police station, Dick to his hotel to grab his jacket before hitching a Zeta-tube up to Star City to see Roy.

A ray of sun passed over the gravestone as the men left the cemetery, highlighting the carved words on the pale-gray surface.

_**Wallace Rudolph West**_

_**November 11, 1994 – February 7, 2014**_

_**With purpose, drive, and endurance, he aimed to win the race every day.**_

But sometimes, even _he_ wasn't fast enough.

_It took nine bullets in all to bring down Kid Flash._

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_**A.N.**_ Wow. What a downer.

So I'm struggling through writer's block and a painfully busy schedule, and I just really had to take out my frustration on something after a full day of testing and sitting in one chair for hours on end. I'm always experimenting with new styles for writing – this one involved two people in conversation dancing around a sore subject until the very end, as well as using nature and the environment to emphasize tone and symbolize emotion. I chose my favorite young speedster and… this happened. Sorry!

But, strangely enough, I feel very cheerful after writing this. :) What did you think? Please review!

Iron Woobie


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